


You Can't Rule with a Broken Upper Hand

by inkandpaperqwerty



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Big Brother Dean, Big Brother Sam, Bobby Singer is So Done, Canon Compliant Through 3:16, Caretaker Dean Winchester, Caretaker Sam Winchester, Caring Dean Winchester, Caring Sam Winchester, Castiel Has Nightmares, Castiel Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Castiel Has Terrible Brothers, Dean and Sam are Conflicted, Family Feels, Flashbacks, Fluff, Gen, He's Too Old for This, Heaven's Persuasion, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, Lilith Killed in 3:16, Little Brother Castiel, No Apocalypse, No Hell for Dean, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Scared Castiel, Season/Series 04, So Freaking Done, Team Free Will, To Gank or Not To Gank, Tortured Castiel, Traumatized Castiel, hence the fluff tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 12:04:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14670723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkandpaperqwerty/pseuds/inkandpaperqwerty
Summary: Successfully killing Lilith and keeping Dean out of Hell has the brothers ready for a good, old-fashioned, hunter-on-demon brawl. It's time to get back to the basics, back to the way things used to be, when monsters got ganked and that was the end of things. That said, they are not ready for a new kind of creature to appear in the middle of their fight, covered in blood and begging for mercy they aren't supposed to give.Meanwhile, Castiel is panicking. He's been tortured senseless for four decades straight, and now he's been thrown down in front of two hunters. If he thought his brothers were bad... well, all angels knew how cruel hunters were... and Castiel has no idea how to convince them he doesn't need to be, in the shorter one's words, ganked.Season 4 AU.





	1. Castiel

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from _A Broken Upper Hand_ by... wait for it... _Demon Hunter._
> 
> First chapter is Castiel's out-of-it perspective, second chapter is the Winchesters' significantly-less-out-of-it perspective, and third chapter is the mutual conclusion.

Humans were bad news.

Everyone in Heaven knew that. Sure, if an angel had their powers, they would be fine. But how often were angels on Earth of their own volition? How often did they fall to the surface with their faculties intact? Never.

“Please… please, don’t…”

Hunters were even worse. Hunters rarely believed in angels—they had seen far too much to think there was any kind of benevolence in the universe—and that meant they usually assumed angels fell into some category of monster. Hunters, when faced with monsters, were unparalleled in their cruelty.

“Please… you don’t… you don’t have to do this…”

Needless to say, when Castiel was punished for putting his faith in humanity—when he was sent into the heart of a battle between hunters and demons, appearing in a blaze of white light that made it very clear he was not of human origin—he was terrified.

“Please…”

“Shut up!”

“Dean, what _is_ it?”

“Don’t you think I would say something if I knew?”

“There’s no mention of anything like this in Dad’s journal.”

“You—you don’t have to… to hunt me, please—”

“Hey! I said shut up, Houdini.”

“Not… Houdini…”

“Well, he’s a bright one.”

“Dean… Dean, he looks really bad.”

Castiel whimpered and tried to push himself away from the duo, unable to make out anything besides a pair of boots and shattered glass on the floor. Pain tore through his core, his body instinctively curling up as a result, but that action only let to white-hot lines of pain cutting across his back.

“Well, whatever it is, we’ve got a job to do.”

“Right. Uh, holy water and salt didn’t seem to do anything, and there’s no way he was on the floor during that fight and didn’t get hit.”

“Okay, so, silver and iron knives to start.”

Castiel felt a sudden pressure and then pain in his side, bloody hands pushing against the stone floor in a desperate attempt to flee. He couldn’t find purchase, his body collapsing helplessly on the concrete in front of the two hunters.

“Please,” he whispered, shaking his head, trying to find their faces in the haze of shadows and blurred colors. “I…”

He what? He had no idea what to bargain with. He could tell them he hadn’t hurt anyone, but why would they believe that? He had no concept of human money or other items they held in high regard; he didn’t even know what region of the planet he was in. He only knew what he had been told would happen to him, and he hadn’t the faintest idea how to keep it from happening.

“Sorry, we’re trying to make this quick.”

“Dude, you’re not supposed to talk to it. It makes it harder to gank’em if you start talking about your feelings.”

“He’s in a lot of pain, Dean. I mean, would you make a dog suffer when you put it down just because it was rabid?”

“No, I…” Sigh. “No, of course not, Sam. But we can’t help it if we don’t know how to put this particular dog down, okay?”

Castiel coughed, the sensation of something wet and warm spraying across his lips. He couldn’t see anything, and the voices had fallen silent. He wanted to talk to them—he wanted to appeal to their mercy, because it seemed they did have some—but he could hardly make his tongue move in his mouth, let alone make it form words and sentences.

Castiel jerked violently, pain cutting into his side again, his head smacking against the stones as he writhed on the ground. _It won’t kill me._ He whined, the stabbing pain sending his normally low voice a few octaves higher. _But it won’t heal. It hurts. It hurts._

“Dean, do we have anything else?”

“I…”

Silence.

“What?”

“Sam, the next thing we would normally try is fire.”

Castiel sucked air down into his lungs— _not fire, please not fire_ —and pushed against the floor again, trying to move backward and failing. “P-please,” he stammered, choking on his own blood as his body continued to throb. “Please, I won’t—” He began to cough again, violent spasms racking his chest, vibrating through his ribs and tearing up the walls of his throat.

“Okay, look, just—just hold on a second.”

Castiel felt hands on him, and he responded on instinct alone.

He screamed.

He threw himself as far away from the hands as he could, smacking his head against the stones as he fell. He pushed himself into a semi-upright position and scrambled backward, hitting some sort of wall, black and brown and red all blurring together nondescriptly. Everything hurt, everything pulsed and pounded, everything ached, and he was scared, he was _so scared._

“Please,” he practically squeaked the word, his damaged vocal chords not capable of much more. “I won’t… won’t hurt… people, I…”

“You can’t be sure of that.”

“We’re sorry this is hurting, but…”

_“…you’re forcing our hand, Castiel. This is your own fault.”_

Castiel gasped for air, chains dangling from the manacles on his wrists, hooks embedded in his wings; Zachariah and Raphael and Michael were getting closer, closer, closer, no, please, no more, no more, no more, _please, please stop hurting me, please, no more, please!_

“You boys freakin’ crazy?”

“We didn’t know what else to do, and we knew you had the panic room.”

“Have you ever seen anything like this, Bobby?”

“No, but that don’t mean I can’t find something out.” Pause. “You said he was beggin’?”

“Yeah. It was—it was chilling. Like a POW or something.”

Those voices… two of them were familiar, but the third was new. It smelled different, too, wherever he was. It was salty… and he could feel sunlight on his face. But it had been nighttime… hadn’t it? He couldn’t have passed out, could he?

If he had, it had done nothing to improve his health. He was still in agony, his body was still very fleshy and broken, and his brain was still too scrambled to put anything together.

Castiel inhaled deeply, trying to determine whether or not he could actually get air into his lungs. He was pleased to find he could.

“Hey, I think he’s waking up.”

His heart rate picked up a bit, and he slowly forced his eyes open. He was looking at the top of some sort of metal cage, fan blades spinning slowly overhead. Sunlight burned his eyes, the discomfort lasting for mere seconds before the harsh glare was blocked out by a pair of worried brown eyes.

“Hey, there. You, uh… you’re awake.”

“Smooth, Sammy. Real smooth.”

Castiel tried to speak, but his throat was raw—and quite possibly bleeding—and he couldn’t quite manage a full sound. He tried to roll over, but he had been strapped to… some sort of bed, if his knowledge of human furniture was correct.

“Hi, uh, my name is Sam. This is my brother, Dean, and our uncle, Bobby.”

Castiel tried to turn his head to look at the other two parties, but the movement sent needles into his neck. “C… C…” He stopped to breathe. “C… Cast…” He put entirely too much emphasis on the ‘T’ and couldn’t get anything out after that.

“Cast?” Sam blinked in confusion and looked to one of the individuals Castiel couldn’t see, receiving a non-verbal cue before engaging again. “Did someone cast a spell on you?”

Castiel tried to shake his head, a soft whimper escaping his lips.

“You… need a cast? For, like, a broken bone or something?”

“How about you numbskulls get the man a drink?”

“Oh, good idea. Sam, here, take this.”

Castiel blinked slowly, watching Sam move in his peripherals, and he tried, unsuccessfully, to see what Sam was pressing to his lips. He had no idea what the humans would try and give him to drink, but he soon found he didn’t much care. It touched his lips, and it felt _amazing._

Castiel lapped it up hungrily, pulling against the restraints to get as close to the crinkling cup as he could. He didn’t know what he was putting inside his vessel, but it made his throat feel less like it was lined with glass, and that made him _very_ happy.

“Woah, woah, woah. Easy there, buddy.” That was Dean, if Castiel had followed the interactions appropriately.

“You weren’t kidding about the POW thing.” That was the last voice, and that made it Bobby. “It’s like he’s never tasted water before.”

“There you go.” Sam spoke softly, a quick smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Better?”

Castiel gave a slight jerk of his head, eyeing the oddly-shaped glass sadly when he realized it was empty.

Sam only smiled again, but it was still that brief, uncertain smile. “We can get you some more then. Now, you were saying something about a cast…?”

“Castiel,” he croaked, coughing his way through the end of the word.

“Castiel?” Sam blinked and thought for a moment, but then he seemed to understand. “That’s your name. Castiel?”

“So, tell us, Cas—” it was Dean speaking again, pulling up a chair and sitting next to Sam, “—what are you?”

Castiel looked between the two of them—their blurry outlines and hovering faces—a shudder tearing through his body.

They may have been exceptionally kind hunters, but they were still hunters. They were still _humans_ , and Castiel had grown up on the horror stories of what they would do when given a helpless angel. He remembered watching between his fingers as his brothers entered the city of Sodom and Gamora, remembered hearing the citizens jeer and call for the angels to be surrendered to them so they could _have their way._ He remembered watching one third of his family plummet to the Earth, and he remembered spending the next several decades just staring into the abyss, wondering what was being done to them.

Castiel shrank in on himself. He looked up at the duo with nothing short of terror in his eyes, and despite his trembling, he shook his head.

“You sure about that?” Dean questioned, and there was something distinctly dangerous in those pale green eyes. “Because what that tells me is that you know we’d gank you if we knew what you were.”

Castiel had no idea what ‘ganking’ was, but it didn’t sound fun.

“Still not talking, huh?” Dean snorted, almost as if he were laughing, but sounded angry when he spoke. “That confirms it, then. Whatever you are, you’re bad news, and that means you gotta go, pal. It might take a while, but we’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Castiel watched him carefully, trying and failing to keep his poker face.

Ironic, he thought, given his reputation for emotionless monotony.

Castiel looked away from Dean and instead focused on Sam, hoping to find more compassion there. It seemed, even if they both thought he was a monster, Sam was more inclined to show mercy than Dean.

But Sam only looked at him apologetically. “You really should just tell us. Maybe… I don’t know, maybe we could help?”

Dean snorted but said nothing.

Castiel shrank in on himself even more—something he didn’t think was physically possible up until that moment—and shook his head again.

“Why’re you so scared, boy?”

Castiel tilted his head back just slightly, catching a brief glimpse of the man called Bobby. He didn’t know what to say, so he just looked at the spot next to Bobby’s face and waited.

“I’ve wasted a lot of monsters, and I’ve never seen someone as jumpy as you.” Bobby paused, and Castiel detected the faintest note of concern when he spoke again. “What do you think we’re gonna do to you, huh?”

Castiel curled up—only a fraction of how much he wanted to, the chains and leather straps keeping him flat—and he stared and Sam’s chest blankly.

“Did someone tell you what to expect? You hear stories about the infamous Winchesters?”

Castiel froze.

Sam and Dean… _Winchester?_ As in the Boy with the Demon Blood? As in the Righteous Man? As in the destined vessels for Lucifer and Michael? As in the ones who killed Lilith before she could drag Dean down to Hell? Who stopped the apocalypse before it could begin and ruined his brothers’ best-laid plans?

_“You love them so much, we’re going to send you to them. It’ll be poetic, don’t you think? You, being punished for siding with them by being cast into the arms of those you so desperately support. They’ll torture you, little brother, in ways even we won’t.”_

Castiel had misunderstood. Zachariah wasn’t talking about ‘them’ humans; he was talking about ‘them’ Winchesters.

Castiel blinked rapidly, vaguely aware of a burning sensation in his eyes, his heart rate climbing fast. He pulled against the straps holding him down, summoning what little strength he had left to break the chains.

“Woah! Holy—”

“Crap, he’s out!”

“Get the door, get the door!”

Castiel felt the metal rings pop and snap one at a time, slowly, painfully scraping against his bare skin. He toppled off the bed and hit the floor hard, panting heavily and dragging himself onto his hands and knees. He heard metal scraping, and when he looked up, he saw someone staring at him through a hole in the door.

_I can’t see the color…_

He couldn’t see much of anything, the entire world blurring and tilting as he struggled to his feet and tried to walk.

_I have to get out of here. I have to—I have to get out of here. They’ll hurt me—they’ll hurt me so much worse than Zachariah and Raphael and—and I can’t do that again, I just can’t._

Castiel struggled to grab one of the walls, trying to maintain his balance. He staggered forward and grappled with the smooth surface, collapsing to the floor when he was unable to find purchase.

_No… I have to get up… I have to fly… I have to… I have to… but I can’t fly. I can’t… why can’t I fly? What did they do to my wings?_

Castiel reached back to feel them, but they weren’t manifest.

_“Do you remember the old human practice, tarring and feathering?”_

He could still feel them; not with his hands, but in the same way he felt his arms and legs. They hurt. They hurt more than he could begin to describe in words, and they were, he realized, the source of the constant throbbing he felt.

_“Now, Castiel, stop squirming. All you’re going to do is get oil on more of your body, and we both know how unpleasant that will be.”_

Castiel slumped on the floor and reached back again, clawing at the skin—the human flesh stretched across his bones—hoping to find something familiar, something softer. He scratched and pulled, grabbing wildly at himself until he found feathers.

_“If you show some repentance, I’ll let you have earplugs. Screaming won’t be as loud and painful then, wouldn’t you agree?”_

Castiel fought with his own body, tearing at the peeling skin of his wings, pulling clumps of bloody feathers out. He could feel the oil on his body, could see it shining in the light on his once magnificent down.

_“Oops. Looks like we missed a spot. I guess we’ll have to start over.”_

_“No, please, not that, anything but that…”_

_“Remember this pain the next time you think about defying orders, Castiel.”_

_“Please… Michael, please, don’t… don’t let him do this… please, not again, please.”_

_“You’ve earned punishment, Castiel. If you want kindness from us, you must be silent and take the pain you’re given.”_

_“Brother, please… Brother… Brother, I’m scared… please…”_

_“Zachariah, give me the torch. I’ll do it.”_

_“Brother? Michael, no, Michael! Please!”_

Castiel screamed, not bothering to restrain his volume, not bothering to only emit noises on a human level. He grabbed at his wings again, delirious with pain, ready and willing to tear the appendages off if it meant the burning would stop, and he kept screaming. He just kept screaming, sobbing, shrieking, wailing to the sky.

_Zachariah… Raphael… Michael… Uriel… How could you do this to me?_

Michael. Michael had been the one brother Castiel thought might care.

 _I have always done what you told me, always, I just—I just disagreed this one time, Michael, how could you? How could you?_ He felt a twist in his stomach. _But I still want to come home. I’ll forgive you, Michael. I will, I promise. We can put it behind us… I just want to come home, please… please, Michael, I want my family…_

Pain cut into his chest, dull but poignant, as he thought of the faces he would never see again. He remembered the pain of Gabriel leaving. He remembered losing Anna. He remembered losing a lot of siblings, but the hundred or so he’d lost in his lengthy lifespan was nothing compared to losing them _all._

_Please, please, you can’t—you can’t do this to me, please, I’ll die. I’ll die if you leave me here. You’re my family, please! I—I want you. I need you. I… I want to come home! I want to come home, Michael! Please! Please!_

“Hey, hey, hey, calm down!”

Castiel thrashed wildly, tears streaming down his cheeks, desperate screams ripping out of his throat as he felt hands on his body. “No, no, no!” _Not more punishment, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t._ “Let me go!”

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

Zachariah was laughing.

“Let me go! Please, mercy! Mercy!”

“Crap. I’m getting Bobby.”

“Please, no more! No more, have mercy, please!”

Raphael was grinning. _“Put him on his knees.”_

“Dean, you have to hold his wings!”

“Please, I’m—I’m your little brother, please! Please, stop!”

Silence, but there were still hands on him; there were _ha_ _nds on him_.

“Please!” He threw his head back and shrieked when the flames engulfed his wings again. “Please, please have mercy! We’re family!” He screamed again, pulling against the restraints—no, not restraints, hands, they were hands—that held him down. “Michael, please, stop them! Stop them, please!”

“Castiel, can you hear me? It’s Sam. It’s Sam and Dean.”

Castiel shook his head, crying loudly, one man keeping him on his knees while the other held his wings out behind him. “No, no, no, no…” No, there weren’t two men, there were four men—no, four angels—no, wait, no, it was three men, it—it was—it—

“Hey, Houdini, it’s Dean. Remember me?”

_I’m not Houdini. My name is Castiel._

“I’m Dean, and this is my little brother, Sam.”

_I’m your little brother, please, have mercy, have mercy!_

“That’s me. Um, my name is Sam, and my favorite color is blue.”

_Sam. Human. Hunter. Blue?_

“Wow. Gay, Sam.” Pause. “Mine’s green.”

_Blue. Green. Earth. Creation. Beautiful._

“We live out of motels, because we travel a lot to hunt.”

_Hunting. Traveling. Teamwork. Humanity._

“Crappy motels, and even crappier food. It’s the life, let me tell you.”

_Happy. Gay. Laughing. Smiling._

“We learned how to hunt from our dad. Well, I learned a lot from Dean, too.”

_Dad. Father. Dean. Brother. Family. Love. Love, love, love, love, love, love, love…_

Castiel inhaled slowly, semi-aware of tear tracks on his face, and opened his eyes. He was staring at the floor, his face pressed against an unfamiliar fabric. It was warm. It was someone’s leg. His head was pressed against someone’s leg, his entire body curled in on itself. They were holding him there, but they weren’t hurting him.

“Hey, there we go. Dean, look, I think he’s coming out of it.”

“Well, that’s great, but what am I supposed to do with these?”

Castiel exhaled harshly and practically melted onto Sam’s lap, an inexplicable peace coming over him, even as he felt foreign hands on his wings. Those hands could be trusted. He didn’t really know why, especially because their owner seemed pretty bent on ‘ganking’ him, but those hands were safe.

“Castiel, do you know where you are?”

Castiel shook his head slightly, making no attempt to lift himself from the floor.

“You’re in Sioux Falls.” Pause. “Do you remember anything about the hunt?”

Castiel shook his head again. “Fell.” He coughed, and blood got on his lips and chin, but his hands were trapped beneath himself. “Thrown. They—they threw me.”

“Where did those a-holes throw you from, Cas?”

“Heaven.” It didn’t even occur to Castiel to lie. “My Father made man… in His image… and we are… we are supposed to love and protect humans… not hurt them…”

“Your Father?” Sam gave Castiel’s shoulder a slight squeeze. “He made us in… Castiel, are you… are you an angel?”

Castiel wanted to tense—he wanted to be afraid, to feel the blood freeze in his veins—but he was so exhausted, and everything hurt _so_ much.

“Cas? Is Sam right?”

Castiel offered a jerky nod.

“Castiel, why didn’t you just say so?”

“I mean, be fair, Sam. We wouldn’t have believed him.”

Castiel thought about moving his arm, but ultimately decided that would take too much effort. “They said…” He sighed softly and let the life drain out. His brothers had said a lot of things, and Castiel didn’t know which bits to believe anymore. He had initially thought maybe they were just a bit misguided—wrong about one or two aspects of humanity—but he just didn’t know anymore.

He didn’t know anything.

“Dean, we have to help him.”

“Wow, really? I had no idea.” Snort. “How do we treat wings?”

“How do we get him comfortable would be my first question.”

“Yeah, he’s pretty ragdoll-looking-ish.” Pause. “Is he even trying to get up?”

“Nope. He’s just… collapsed.”

“That doesn’t look comfortable.”

“I honestly don’t think he really knows what’s going on.”

“Geeze… tortured by his family and thrown at hunters who try to gank him.”

“Well, we know better now. We can help him get back on his feet.”

“Yeah, and no way the Halo Squad is getting anywhere near him.”

“What do you think… him? I mean… details, but… just messed up.”

Castiel didn’t hear anything after that.

He knew he felt wet, pain coming and going along with the sensation of cold air on his skin. Something was crackling around his head, but he sensed no danger. It faded into something much softer, and then he was warm and dry… then he heard a heartbeat. Someone gently touched him, careful of his injuries, and he was allowed to listen to the soothing, rhythmic _ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump._

There was singing, laughter, and threats with no malice in them. There were whispers of words he couldn’t decipher, the tone and accompanying comfort telling him they were words of kindness and love.

It had been over forty years since someone spoke to him kindly… since someone touched him without inflicting pain… since he hadn’t felt the need to pull away from his surroundings and retreat into himself.

It was nice, Castiel decided.

It was nice, and it made him happy, and he _needed_ it _._

_Thank you, Father… this reprieve… is much appreciated…_

He didn’t know what had happened to his brothers and sisters, but at least Someone was still looking out for him, and if he had help, well… he would be back home where he belonged in no time at all.


	2. Sam & Dean

“Sam, be careful!”

Sam rolled his eyes and continued to creep forward. “I’m not an idiot, Dean.”

“That thing freakin’ appeared in a flash of white light.” Dean sounded agitated, but he was no less than a yard behind his brother, ever-faithfully watching his six. “We’ve never seen this… whatever it is before, and you’re walking right up to it.”

Sam could picture the look on Dean’s face, and it was annoying, but it gave Sam a surge of childish happiness. Despite the rough year they’d had, they were still brothers, and Dean was still relentlessly overprotective. Despite the rough year they’d had, Dean still trusted Sam enough to follow his lead instead of pulling him away by the collar.

“You’ve got your gun trained on it, right?” Sam hoped the question would show Dean he wasn’t rushing in without thinking.

“Yeah, but we don’t know if it’ll work.” Metal scraped against the concrete, so Dean must have kicked something aside, because Sam had only encountered splintered wood. “We don’t have a lot of bullets, either.” Because they hadn’t thought it necessary to bring a gun to a knife fight.

“Well, it looks pretty human…” not that that really meant anything, “…and helpless.”

It might have been the most helpless thing Sam had ever seen, actually. It had the form of a nearly naked man, probably somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties, and it was either unconscious or extremely sedated. It was covered in blood and bruises, lying face down and slightly curled on the warehouse floor.

Basically, it wasn’t the most threatening thing Sam had ever seen.

So, Sam got a little bit closer, glass crunching under his boots. He glanced up and saw a few panels of the skylight had been shattered. _But he definitely appeared in a flash of light. He didn’t fall in._

“Sammy…”

Sam ignored Dean and crouched down instead, slowly reaching out to place a hand on the less damaged shoulder.

Whatever the thing was, it flinched away from the touch and pleaded in a weak, overused voice. “Please… please, don’t…”

Sam frowned, hand still hovering.

Monsters didn’t usually beg. Most of them maintained their pride to the bitter end, bragging or spitting curses. Low level monsters might have begged if they had the mental capacity, but they were often too animalistic to have any real concept of life and death. Even demons they tortured for information only gave what was helpful and occasionally asked for mercy or tried to hold the brothers to their end of a deal.

They didn’t _beg._

“Sam, it’s not human.” Dean’s voice lacked his usual confidence.

Sam cautiously tugged the creature’s arm away from its face. _It didn’t flinch that time._ Sam knew why as soon as he saw its eyes. They were wide with terror, and it was definitely conscious, but they were clouded to the point of looking gray.

“Sam,” Dean pressed, his tone urgent.

“Please...” the creature whined, one hand moving haphazardly to push against the ground. “You don’t… you don’t have to do this…”

Sam swallowed hard and looked at Dean, realizing only after his head was turned that he already trusted the creature enough to take his eyes off it. That trust might have been in its weakness, but still, it meant he wasn’t looking for a trap.

Dean looked conflicted, but he kept his tone hard. “Sam, even demons know how to get in your head. Lilith was in a little girl when we killed her. It’s not real.”

But Sam knew Dean, and he knew Dean didn’t actually believe what he was saying.

Sam let out a sigh and looked back at the being on the floor.

“Please…”

“Shut up!” Intentional or not, it was making Dean feel guilty.

Sam wet his lips and started with the basics, wanting to get the job over with as quickly as possible. “Dean, what _is_ it?”

“Don’t you think I would say something if I knew?” was the clipped reply.

Sam inched a little closer and reached out a third time. “There’s no mention of anything like this in Dad’s journal,” he mumbled, trying to recall anything involving white light and humanoid features.

Sam’s finger brushed against its skin, and it flinched back.

_It’s hypersensitive again._

“You—you don’t have to… to hunt me, please—”

“Hey! I said shut up, Houdini.”

_He knows we’re hunters. He knows what hunters are, too, so…_

“Not… Houdini…” the man rasped, blood flecked over his lips.

“Well, he’s a bright one,” Dean retorted dryly.

“Dean…” _…he knows we’re hunters, and that probably means he’s a monster of some kind…_ “…Dean, he looks really bad.”

He—no, it—tried to push itself away but got nowhere, the shards of glass on the floor digging into its hand until its body gave. It tried to curl up, but that only seemed to cause it further pain, a strangled cry bursting between its lips.

Sam got a little closer, biting his lip at the sight of black hair matted with blood. Blue eyes stared back at him, entirely unseeing, and Sam felt a sick twist in his gut.

_It’s a monster. It’s not his fault, he can’t help it, but we have to protect people._

His mind was quick to laugh a bitter reply. _Oh, yes, because he’s such a threat. He can’t even tell what’s happening two feet in front of his face._

Sam was back to calling it a ‘he.’

“Well, whatever it is, we’ve got a job to do.”

“Right.” Sam had never felt so wrong saying that word. “Uh, holy water and salt didn’t seem to do anything, and there’s no way he was on the floor during that fight and didn’t get hit.”

Dean cleared his throat, and Sam recognized the nervously shifting footsteps as a sign that Dean wasn’t completely on board with his own plan. “Okay, so, silver and iron knives to start.”

Sam pulled the silver from his boot and bit his lip. _Think of it as putting him out of his misery._ It didn’t make him feel any better, but that didn’t keep him from plunging his blade into the tender flesh below the ribcage, above the hip.

He—it, he had to think of it as an _it_ —barely managed a cry of pain, the sound coming out more like a gasp than a shout. Sam quickly pulled the knife back out and watched the creature, sick with guilt.

It pushed against the floor again, but it was no more successful than the first time it tried to move. “Please…” It shook its head, blinking slowly and looking around with vacant eyes. “I…”

Sam looked at Dean, who had pulled out his iron knife and was staring uncertainly. Sam looked back to the man—the _creature_ , the _thing_ —and did another onceover.

Blood was dried in various stages all over its skin, and it was wearing nothing except a dark pair of boxer-briefs that were just as stained as the rest of its body. That, along with the begging and the worn-out voice, told Sam it was probably on the run when they found it.

Or it found them.

_Either way, talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire._

“Sorry,” Sam said softly, unable to tear his eyes from the fresh blood trailing sluggishly down the creature’s stomach and back. “We’re trying to make this quick.”

“Dude, you’re not supposed to talk to it.” Dean cleared his throat, and there was more nervous weight-shifting. “It makes it harder to gank’em if you start talking about your feelings.”

 _Too late._ “He’s in a lot of pain, Dean.” Sam reached back to take the knife nonetheless. “I mean, would you make a dog suffer when you put it down just because it was rabid?”

“No, I…” Dean sighed and ignored the hand Sam was holding out. He approached the man—thing, thing, _thing_ —himself and knelt down on the other side. “No, of course not, Sam.” He wet his lips and looked at the cut Sam had inflicted. “But we can’t help it if we don’t know how to put this particular dog down, okay?”

Sam just looked at it. It coughed but didn’t say anything, tongue hanging uselessly from its open mouth as it panted, as if subconsciously filling the analogized roll.

“Can you… if you stab him in the same place, maybe it would do less damage. Just putting the iron into contact with a wound should be enough for us to know if it’ll work.”

Dean nodded and lined his blade up. “It’ll still do some damage. It’s bigger than yours.”

Sam gave Dean an exasperated look. “Really, Dean? Now?”

Dean smirked, but it didn’t go all the way to his eyes, and he thrust the knife in quickly.

Their target spasmed at the new intrusion, throwing its head against the stones and whining to the ceiling. Sam watched Dean pull the blade out and felt ill. Dean looked like Sam felt.

“Dean, do we have anything else?” He wanted to be done. Immediately.

“I…” Dean looked at the creature with a pained expression on his face.

“What?” Sam realized the answer with the question barely off his tongue. _Oh._

“Sam, the next thing we would normally try is fire.”

Sam opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by the creature gasping loudly, trying to move yet again and failing… yet again.

“P-please,” it stammered, apparently conscious enough to fear the mention of fire. “Please, I won’t—” It broke off into a fit of violent coughs, hacking blood up and gagging on the liquid it couldn’t expel.

Dean launched into Big Brother Mode before he even realized what he was doing, his second nature telling him to protect that which was smaller and weaker than himself. “Okay, look, just—just hold on a second.” Dean took it by the shoulders.

And it _screamed._

It threw itself away from Dean, scrambling backward until it hit Sam. It apparently didn’t know that Sam wasn’t a wall, because it kept trying to sit up and lean against him. Its entire body was trembling, and tears had begun to roll down its cheeks.

“Please,” it squeaked, voice cracking painfully, bare feet scraping over the glass and splinters on the floor. “I won’t… won’t hurt… people, I…”

“You can’t be sure of that,” Dean bit out, but he was looking at Sam with uncertain eyes.

“We’re sorry this is hurting, but…” Sam tried to back up his brother. “But you…”

Sam looked at Dean. Dean looked at the creature. They both knew its reaction likely meant fire was, indeed, the way to kill it.

Sam tried again, struggling to organize words in his brain. “Uh, you just… you…”

“You’re coming with us.”

Sam blinked, stunned speechless.

Dean stared back for a moment, like he couldn’t believe the words that had come out of his own mouth, and then shook his head, muttering a long string of profanities under his breath. “Come on, let’s get him in the Impala.”

Sam opened his mouth to question the move but then decided not to argue. It would have been unreasonable, given the fact he had been disarmed by the creature’s pleas first, and it wasn’t like he had an idea to offer in place of taking it along.

Could they call it a ‘him’ again? If they weren’t going to kill it… him… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to humanize him… it… a little.

Sam’s head was starting to hurt.

“Y-you… you can’t…” the crea—man wheezed, eyes fluttering shut, head shaking weakly. “This isn’t… isn’t _right,_ please…”

“What’s not right?” Sam asked softly, rubbing the man’s upper arms in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. “We aren’t going to hurt you anymore, okay? We’re sorry.”

But the man only shook his head and whined again, shuddering violently in Sam’s arms. “No, please… please, not that…”

Dean approached slowly, reaching out and thumbing one of the man’s eyes open. He found the same foggy irises Sam had. “Not what, buddy?”

More absent staring and headshakes. “I can’t… I can’t take anymore… please, no more… kill me… kill me, please, I can’t… I can’t take it…” He shuddered again, broken sobs finding their way up his throat before fizzling into shallow breaths.

“Sammy, is he having… like, a flashback or something?”

“I think so.” Sam swallowed hard. “It sounds like he was tortured, Dean.”

“Yeah, that’s kinda where I was going with that.” Dean sighed heavily and worked his arms around the body still propped against Sam. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. We’ll take him to Bobby’s and stick him in the panic room.”

Sam quirked a brow, silently questioning the idea.

“What? I figure if it can keep anything out, it can keep pretty much anything in. Hopefully.” Dean adjusted his hold and lifted the man into the air.

“Careful! I thi—”

Sam was cut off by loud, plaintive whining.

“No… please, stop…” the man whispered, head lolling to the side. “Please…”

“I think his back is burned,” Sam finished lamely, standing up and dusting himself off. “It looked like the skin was starting to peel.”

“Oh, for cryin’ out—” Dean shook his head and started to walk. “Let’s get him on his stomach ASAP.”

Sam nodded and ran to pick up their discarded weapons before turning on his heel and sprinting back across the room. He got to the door first and held it open, ushering Dean through and jogging out after him.

“Door, door, door!”

Sam turned around and held his arms out. “What does it look like I’m doing?” He finished the rest of the trip to the Impala and opened both back doors, getting in on one side and waiting for Dean to get in the other.

Dean was nearly losing his grip by the time he half placed, half-dropped the creature-man on the backseat. Sam and Dean worked together to get him all the way in without causing further damage.

“We better call Bobby to give him a heads up,” Sam muttered, putting all the spare fabric they had against the stab wound and pressing down hard. “And to see if he knows anything.”

So, Dean made the call, and then it was only a matter of driving as fast as they could to Sioux Falls; and they did, miraculously going un-ticketed.

More than half the drive was spent trying to soothe their frantic cargo, who would fall quiet for no more than five minutes before crying out again. They eventually just pulled over so Sam could crawl in the back and do his best to keep the man comfortable while Dean finished the half-hour home stretch.

“You gotta be kidding me.”

That was what Bobby said when he opened the door and saw them standing there, unconscious man-monster-thing hanging between them.

“We wish we were,” Sam muttered, legs still cramped from the awkward end of the trip.

Dean, on the other hand, was irritated from the long drive and snapped, “You knew we were coming and what we were bringing.”

Bobby just _looked_ at Dean and waited a few seconds.

“Sorry.” Dean sighed, ducking his head. “Sorry, I… my bad.”

Bobby jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I got the panic room ready.”

Dean nodded and turned sideways, helping Sam get the man through the door. They struggled to keep him and themselves upright, so Dean finally took over, leaving Sam and Bobby to be the door-openers.

“You said he showed up in white light?”

“Yeah,” Sam breathed, watching Dean deposit the limp form on a cot. “It was… I don’t know, like a ball? He sort of… fell out of it. Like, if the white stuff had been a doorway, he would have been tripping through it.”

Bobby pulled his hat off and scratched his head before putting the cap back in place. “I don’t know what good that’s gonna do me, as far as research goes. ‘Naked guy in a ball of white light’ ain’t a lot to go on.” He glanced at Sam. “I’m guessin’ you tried to kill it?”

“Yeah.” Sam rubbed the back of his neck and looked in at Dean, who was carefully restraining the unconscious… thing-man-creature-monster-entity.

They really needed to figure out what he was. Or name him.

Dean shook his head slightly, his movements slow and gentle. “You should’ve seen him, Bobby. He was begging for his life like I’ve never heard before.”

Bobby looked at Dean, then at Sam, and then at Dean again, his expression growing suspicious. “You _do_ plan to kill it, don’t you?”

Sam looked at Bobby helplessly.

Dean didn’t look away from the topic of conversation.

Bobby cursed. “You brought me a monster you don’t plan to kill? You boys freakin’ crazy?”

“We didn’t know what else to do,” Dean wiped his hands on his jeans, “and we knew you had the panic room.” He joined his family by the door and put his eyes back on their… captive, for lack of a better word.

“Have you ever seen anything like this, Bobby?” Sam gravitated toward the body Dean had left behind, silently hoping Bobby would use the challenge of a difficult search for motivation.

“No, but that don’t mean I can’t find something out.” Bobby frowned, his expression twisting thoughtfully. “You said he was beggin’?”

“Yeah. It was—it was chilling.” Sam wet his lips and swallowed hard, nauseated just thinking about the way those faded blue eyes had stared through him. “Like a POW or something.”

“Said something wasn’t right, but he wouldn’t say what.” Dean leaned against the doorway. “He said he couldn’t take any more, and he just kept begging. We weren’t even doing anything to him.”

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but then he saw the man’s chest jerk and all thoughts of conversation immediately derailed. “Hey, I think he’s waking up.”

Sam got close enough to see the man’s eyes, and then he tried to put himself in their direct line of sight, concern creasing his brow.

Blue eyes stared back at him, and it actually seemed like, at least for a moment, they were processing what was in front of them. Still cloudy, but only around the edges, no doubt creating some sort of cataracts-induced tunnel vision.

“Hey, there,” Sam whispered, flashing a quick smile. “You, uh… you’re awake.”

“Smooth, Sammy. Real smooth.”

Sam tossed a halfhearted glare over his shoulder, but his attention was pulled back when the man tried to roll over. Dean had strapped him down well despite his injuries, so he didn’t get far, but Sam wasn’t comforted.

 _I don’t want him to panic._ “Hi, uh… my name is Sam. This is my brother, Dean, and our uncle, Bobby.” _Smoother by the second, Winchester._

Squinting, the man tried to tilt his head back, pressing his face against the metal frame as a result. “C… c…” He stopped and took a deep breath, making yet another attempt at speech. “C… cast…”

“Cast?” Sam blinked, confused, and looked to his family for help.

Dean held up his hands and Bobby shrugged. _So glad I have you guys._

Sam looked back at the man on the cot. “Did someone cast a spell on you?”

If the man was a human enchanted by a witch…

But the man shook his head, mewling quietly in lieu of words.

“You… need a cast?” Sam tried. “For, like, a broken bone or something?”

Dean gave him a look of sibling judgement, and Sam stuck out his tongue.

“How about you numbskulls get the man a drink?” Bobby was openly struggling to find patience, casting his eyes upward in a silent prayer.

“Oh, good idea.” Dean snapped his fingers and went over to the crate of water Bobby kept on hand, grabbing a bottle and handing it over Sam’s shoulder. “Sam, here, take this.”

Sam grabbed the bottle and twisted the cap off with a muffled word of thanks, and then he was propping the man’s head up and pressing the bottle’s rim to his cracked lips. He tilted it just a fraction of a degree, and the man on the bed was suddenly full of life. He pulled against the straps and cuffs holding him down, teeth closing around what little of the bottle they could grip, lips pulling it closer as he struggled to get as much water into his mouth as possible.

“Woah, woah, woah.” Dean walked around to the head of the bed, hovering in true helicopter-parent fashion. “Easy there, buddy.” He looked like he wanted to help but didn’t know how.

“You weren’t kidding about the POW thing.” Bobby muttered something under his breath but shook his head at their questioning looks. “It’s like he’s never tasted water before.”

Dean looked back down at the bed, tensed and waiting, ready to mother hen at the drop of a hat, whether he realized it or not.

Sam didn’t bother hiding his smile, but he didn’t say anything until the water was gone; then he set the bottle aside and tried to coax some conversation from their impromptu guest-slash-prisoner.

“There you go,” Sam said softly, smiling down at the battered face. “Better?”

Jerking his head, the man eyed the plastic bottle, and his lips pulled into a slight frown.

Sam couldn’t help but smile again, even if it was overshadowed by worry. “We can get you some more then. Now, you were saying something about a cast…?”

“Castiel,” the man rasped, coughing violently.

“Castiel?” _Is that an incantation? Or maybe—Oh. Duh._ “That’s your name. Castiel?”

“So, tell us, Cas—” Dean dragged a nearby chair over to the cot and straddled it, resting his arms across the back, “—what are you?”

Castiel looked between the two of them, a shudder tearing through his body. His eyes, still faded around the edges, were wide and brimming with fear, but something was keeping his lips together. His body was trembling, but his jaw was set, and even though he seemed to be on the fence about his own silence, he ultimately shrank into the thin mattress and shook his head.

“You sure about that?” Dean used a voice Sam liked to call the Did You Just Potentially Become a Threat to My Family? Voice™. “Because what that tells me is that you know we’d gank you if we knew what you were.”

Castiel only stared at them, jaw still set, chains clinking as his body shivered.

“Still not talking, huh?” Dean snorted, and there was a familiar bite in his voice when he continued. “That confirms it, then. Whatever you are, you’re bad news, and that means you gotta go, pal. It might take a while, but we’ll figure it out. We always do.”

But Dean didn’t want to, and that was where the familiar bite came in.

Castiel looked at Dean, trying to seem unaffected and failing. His eyes were wide, his body was tense, and for a second, it looked like all he wanted to do was cry. But he didn’t. He turned to look at Sam instead, searching for kindness Sam wasn’t sure he could give, looking so utterly terrified and _alone._

He looked so alone. He looked like he was the only person on the planet.

Sam sighed softly, his brow creasing with sympathy. “You really should just tell us. Maybe… I don’t know, maybe we could help?”

Dean snorted to tell Sam what he thought of that suggestion, but Sam ignored him.

Somehow, someway, Castiel managed to make himself even smaller than he already was. He ducked his head, looking up through matted bangs, shoulders hunched up and forward, chin tucked behind his collarbone, and he whimpered.

“Why’re you so scared, boy?”

Sam was surprised by Bobby’s question, but he looked at Castiel, hoping a new voice might prompt a response of some kind.

Castiel tilted his head back—difficult, given his position—and looked somewhere over Bobby’s shoulder.

“I’ve wasted a lot of monsters,” Bobby continued, undeterred, “and I’ve never seen one as jumpy as you.” He paused, lips drawn into a frown. “What do you think we’re gonna do to you, huh?”

Castiel’s response was to curl as much as his restraints would let him, bruised and bloody knees shifting no more than four inches on the mattress before meeting resistance. He stared at Sam’s chest, and it looked like his eyes might have been out of commission again.

“Did someone tell you what to expect?” Bobby pressed, moving a little closer to the bed and peering down at the prone Castiel who refused to tell them much else about himself. “You hear stories about the infamous Winchester brothers?”

Castiel froze.

_That’s a yes._

Castiel remained frozen, staring dead ahead while every muscle in his body turned to stone. His breath picked up, and then his body started to squirm, and then his eyes were glassy with tears and more unfocused than ever, and then he started to pant and blink rapidly.

Sam looked at Dean, a silent question in his eyes. _What now?_

Dean gave a less than helpful answer. _Heck if I know._

Castiel moved, a single twitch that quickly turned into full-fledged resistance. Sam reached out to push him down, but the sound of a snapping buckle stopped him short.

It hadn’t occurred to Sam that someone as beaten down as Castiel might still be able to literally tear chains apart. What _was_ he?

Sam jumped back when Castiel tore an arm free. “Woah! Holy—”

“Crap, he’s out!” Dean bolted from his chair, shoving Sam toward the exit.

They practically tripped out of the room with Sam hollering, “Get the door, get the door!”

Bobby did just that, grabbing the wall of metal and slamming it shut.

Sam rushed to open the slot on the door, peering inside despite the pounding in his chest. Because he didn’t believe Castiel wanted to hurt them—not in that moment, anyway—and he thought whatever was happening inside the panic room might confirm that.

It did.

Castiel was on his hands and knees by the cot, and Sam couldn’t imagine the escape attempt had also been an attack attempt. It looked like their initial impression of Castiel was still accurate—terrified and unaware of what was actually happening around him.

“What’s he doing?” Dean pushed Sam aside enough so he could see, too.

Sam shook his head. “He’s just… kneeling there.”

Castiel looked at them, and they fell into an uneasy silence. They both tensed up when Castiel dragged himself to his feet, but tension melted away as Castiel proved to be just as nonviolent as before. He staggered into the closest wall with a disoriented yelp, and Sam spared a glance at Dean.

Dean looked like someone had punched him in the gut, and Sam knew exactly why.

Dean’s primary objective was to protect Sam, and the second was to stay alive… mostly so he could protect Sam… but third came the need to take care of those he deemed weaker than himself.

Not that he would ever admit it.

Oh, sure, Dean openly embraced the family business slogan—saving people was his motivation for almost every hunt—and he wasn’t ashamed of his protective instincts. But his core desire was something kept under lock and key, something Sam had only seen a handful of times, something he thought showed who Dean might have been if he hadn’t been so desperate to imitate their father.

Dean liked to hold people. Dean would always reach for his guns first, because that was what he was trained to do, but what his instincts told him to do was grab on and wrap his entire body around their head and vital organs. Dean felt an ingrained desire to offer protection and comfort in its most physical form; Sam believed it was one of the reasons Dean was a sex addict.

But it went beyond sex. Sex was the only masculine, socially acceptable way for Dean to acknowledge that he best expressed himself through touch. But in a different life, under different circumstances, Sam imagined it would have manifested itself in many ways.

Dean would have been the husband who voluntarily held his wife’s hand during labor and crawled into the bed to hold her and the baby afterward; the father who talked a tough game but always wrapped his kids in the tightest hugs and made sure they never went to bed without a goodnight kiss; the guy at work or on the street who would take words of encouragement one step further and squeeze your shoulder or pat your back.

Dean was gentle. Dean was kind.

And Dean loved to hold people.

Needless to say, standing by helplessly while a tortured trauma victim sat on the floor, whining in pain and trying time and again to get up, well… it was hard for Dean. It was almost unbearable.

“Dean…?” Sam nudged him slightly. “Hey, you okay?”

Dean turned away from the door and started up the stairs. “We can’t do anything until he passes out again. I need a drink.”

Sam watched him go and then looked at Bobby.

“I’ll keep an eye on him.” Bobby followed Dean up the steps, and then Sam was alone.  
Well, not completely alone.

“Castiel?” he called softly, looking at the miserable lump on the floor and wishing he could do something. “Castiel, it’s going to be okay. I don’t know how just yet… but we’ll figure it out.”

Castiel was still moaning quietly, mumbling words from time to time, and he didn’t respond.

_We’ll figure it out… like Dean said, we always do._

Sam let out a heavy sigh and shut the panel, going to join Dean and Bobby in their consumption of alcohol.

Dean wasn’t the only one who needed a drink.

* * *

Sam didn’t know what woke him up first—the shattering windows, the high-pitched shrieking, the screaming from beneath the floorboards—but he knew he wound up stumbling down the stairs to the panic room behind an equally disoriented Dean.

Bobby ran past them in the opposite direction, shotgun in hand. “If any of his kind heard that noise, they might be on their way,” he called over his shoulder.

Sam nodded breathlessly, practically leaping down the last five steps and joining Dean by the door. “What’s going on?”

Dean stepped aside so Sam could look, dumbfounded. “He’s got _freaking wings_ , Sam.”

“What?” Sam leaned down slightly and looked through the slat, eyes widening when he saw Castiel on the floor, clawing wildly at his back, shoulders, and _wings._

“Dean—”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean was already opening the door. “They look even worse than he does.”

Sam followed Dean into the panic room, both of them stopping a few yards from Castiel and looking at each other uncertainly.

“Wings, okay, wings, what do we—what do we do with wings?”

“They’re—” Sam tilted his head and tried to circle around to Castiel’s other side. “I think they’re burned. See how they, uh, they almost look skeletal?”

“Yeah, like, uh—like bat wings without the skin.”

“Exactly, but they don’t look like bat wings, they look like bird wings.” Sam stepped a little bit sideways and crouched down, heart clenching at the way Castiel was tearing apart his own skin. “Those, uh, those are the shafts of the feathers, I think, but the actual, y’know, feathery part has been burned off.”

“That explains the burns on his back. It probably got burned when the wings did.” Dean tried to get a little closer, but a flailing wing nearly took his head off. “He’s tearing out his own feathers, man, that can’t be good.”

“Listen to him,” Sam followed his own advice shortly after, falling silent for a few seconds and attempting to get a little closer without setting Castiel off. “He’s not screaming in pain. It’s like… he’s…”

“Grieving.” Dean’s voice was low and rough. “He’s grieving, Sam.”

Sam listened for a moment more and realized that was exactly it. Castiel’s screams were underscored by broken sobs, rough cries tearing up his already damaged throat, like the frightened howls of a wolf cut off from its pack. His body was heaving as he tried to pull air down, vocal chords screaming out the kind of pain that couldn’t be relieved with medicine or bandages. His kind—whatever they were—must have been pack animals, used to having a large family, and Sam suddenly remembered how utterly _alone_ Castiel had looked when Dean threatened him.

“Cas!”

Sam was jerked from his thoughts by Dean shouting, and he immediately joined his brother’s efforts. “Castiel, it’s okay.” _We have to get him restrained for all our sakes._ “Castiel!”

But Castiel couldn’t hear them. His wings flapped haphazardly, uncontrollably, trying to escape whatever was causing their pain but unable to find relief no matter what position they were in.

“Cas!”

Sam half ran, half dove forward and grabbed Castiel by the shoulders, trying to hold him still. “Hey, hey, hey, calm down!”

Castiel twisted and screamed, reaching up to throw Sam off. Sam only grabbed his forearms and held on tight, not knowing which way he should try to pin Castiel down.

_I can’t put him on his wings, but if I put him on his stomach, his wi—_

“No, no, no! Let me go!”

“Hey, it’s okay.” Sam spoke loudly but evenly. “It’s okay.”

“Let me go!” Castiel looked at Sam pleadingly, tears streaming down his cheeks, eyes clouded and bloodshot and dilated to the point where they were more black than blue. “Please, mercy! Mercy!”

Sam felt a twist in his gut, and he looked to Dean for help.

Dean had no idea what to do, so he went for the Winchester Default. “Crap. I’m getting Bobby.”

“Please, no more!” Castiel dropped his head and kept screaming, simultaneously clutching Sam’s sleeves and trying to pull away. “No more, have mercy, please!” He just kept _screaming_ and thrashing, and the more he moved, the more pain he caused himself.

“Dean, you have to hold his wings!” _Don’t leave me alone with him,_ was the unspoken message. _I don’t know what to do._

Dean turned on a dime and ran back, assessing the situation as quickly as he could and—with a ‘screw it, here goes’ kind of look on his face—he rushed forward and pressed his body against one of the wings, forcing it to fold up against Castiel’s back. He wrapped his arms around Castiel’s torso and held on tight, stocking feet sliding on the floor as he tried to help Sam hold Castiel down.

“Please, I’m—” Castiel choked on a sob and screwed his eyes shut. “I’m your little brother, please!”

Sam didn’t hear what came after that.

He doubted Dean did, either.

They looked at each other, and Sam thought for a moment that he would be sick.

He didn’t always understand Dean’s Big Brother Mode, though he liked to pretend he did, and he knew there were parts of that protective instinct he would never truly comprehend, and maybe he didn't know all of what an older brother would or wouldn't do, but… the thought of begging Dean for mercy… the thought of screaming in pain beneath Dean’s hand… it was unfathomable. Even more impossible to wrap his brain around was the idea of Dean hearing those pleas and giving him _nothing_ —no comfort, no compassion, no mercy, no help, no, ‘Hang in there, Sammy,’ not even a, ‘You’ll be fine, so stop bawling like a little girl, Sam.’ Just…

Nothing.

Castiel threw his head back and screamed, the noise going so high and getting so loud both brothers had to fight not to cover their ears. “Please, please have mercy!” His voice cut through the ringing. “We’re family!” He wept openly, his struggles growing weaker by the second. “Michael, please, stop them! Stop them, please!”

“Castiel, can you hear me?” If asked, Sam would have denied that his voice cracked. “It’s Sam. It’s Sam and Dean.”

Castiel only shook his head, tears streaming down his face. “No, no, no, no…”

Dean shook his head and looked at Sam, his lip split and bleeding. “He’s trying to pull his wing in closer. I don’t think he knows it’s already folded.”

Sam almost asked what happened to Dean’s mouth, but the answer was pretty obvious—Castiel must have hit Dean in the teeth—and there were bigger problems at hand.

“They probably stretched the wings out to burn them. What about the other one?” Sam scooted a little closer and moved one hand from Castiel’s arm to the back of his head, pulling him closer and pressing him down with help from Dean. “Does he have any control over it?”

“I… I don’t think so, Sammy. It doesn’t make sense for him to only be trying to fold one wing. He’s just…” Dean reached out cautiously, one arm still wrapped around the first wing and part of Castiel’s chest while the other struggled to pull the wayward wing closer.

Sam held on tight, desperately wishing he knew how to fix the pain Castiel was in, trying to figure out some way to get Castiel’s legs out from underneath himself. It had to be painful, being curled into such a tight little ball, and it definitely wouldn’t be helping his injuries.

“I can’t reach.” Dean shook his head and grabbed onto Castiel’s waist again, panting. “I don’t want to pull any more feathers or skin off, and I can’t reach the end.” He heaved a sigh and looked down at the man beneath him.

Sam watched Dean place his hand over the wounds they had inflicted, and he felt a stab of guilt he knew was a pinprick compared to what Dean was feeling.

Dean cleared his throat. “Hey, Houdini, it’s Dean. Remember me?”

Castiel panted, still sobbing, but he stilled.

“I’m Dean, and this is my little brother, Sam.”

Castiel tensed at the phrase ‘little brother,’ and Sam worried he might start panicking again, so he tried to keep things calm and normal.

As normal as talking a winged man-creature down from a PTSD flashback in a salted, demon-trapped panic room could be, anyway.

“That’s me.” Sam rubbed the back of Castiel’s head, pressing it down until it hit his thigh. “Um, my name is Sam, and my favorite color is blue.” _Wow._

“Wow.” Dean echoed the thought. “Gay, Sam.” He twisted his lips, reluctant, and then added, “Mine’s green.”

Castiel was still shaking and crying, but the screams had stopped, and his struggles were nearly non-existent, save for the occasional, uncontrolled wing twitch.

“We live out of motels,” Sam continued, trying to think of anything that qualified as small talk, “because we travel a lot to hunt.” _Maybe hunting isn’t the best thing to talk about._

But Dean recovered for Sam just like Sam had for him. “Crappy motels, and even crappier food. It’s the life, let me tell you.” He laughed softly.

Sam laughed, too, watching out of the corner of his eye as Dean inched toward the end of the unfurled wing. “We learned how to hunt from our dad.” Sam hoped he could show Castiel that family was important to them, and he hoped even more that it would be comforting. “Well, I learned a lot from Dean, too.”

Castiel remained tensed for a moment more, but then he took a deep breath and started to relax. Sam stroked his hair gently, watching the sweat glisten on Castiel’s mottled, burned, bruised, dirty, bloody, broken skin.

_How could anyone do this?_

More importantly, how could anyone do it _to their baby brother?_

“Hey, there we go.” Sam smiled slightly. “Dean, look, I think he’s coming out of it.”

“Well, that’s great,” Dean grunted, finally managing to get the other wing folded and pinned, “but what am I supposed to do with these?”

Castiel let out a burst of air, and his body practically melted onto Sam’s lap. His arms were no longer braced or pulling, his shoulders weren’t rigid, his fists weren’t clenched, and he wasn’t determined to keep himself away from any and all contact. He simply collapsed onto Sam, arms tangled up on the floor beneath him, head no longer pressed but resting on Sam’s thigh, body loosely curled into a ball.

“Castiel, do you know where you are?” Sam asked softly.

Castiel jerked his head but made no further attempt to move.

“You’re in Sioux Falls.” Sam looked at Dean briefly. “Do you remember anything about the hunt?”

“Fell.” Castiel coughed, but he kept his face and neck pressed against Sam’s thigh. “Thrown. They—they threw me.”

Sam frowned, confused.

“Where did those a-holes throw you from?”

“Heaven.” Castiel replied without missing a beat, and he was way too disoriented to lie. “My Father made man… in His image… we are… we are supposed to love and protect humans… not hurt them…”

“Your Father?” Sam gave Castiel’s shoulder a slight squeeze, his brain making quick work of two and two. “He made us in… Castiel, are you… are you an angel?”

Castiel didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no, either. He simply lay there, exhausted, probably wondering whether or not he had just made a massive mistake.

“Cas?” Dean pressed. “Is Sam right?”

Castiel jerked his head, and the move actually resembled a nod that time.

“Castiel,” Sam whispered, “why didn’t you just say so?”

“I mean, be fair, Sam. We wouldn’t have believed him.”

 _I might have._ But he didn’t say so. Sam might have been more open to the idea of faith than Dean, but Dean did have a point. Even if Sam did believe in angels, he wouldn’t have expected to find one in such a sorry state.

“They said…” It was Castiel’s voice, weak and still tinged with fear, and that was all the further he got. He sighed instead of speaking, face rubbing against Sam’s thigh.

Sam wondered when he had last been touched by someone who didn’t intend to cause him pain. Days? Weeks? Months?

…years?

“Dean, we have to help him.”

Dean gave him a stupid look. “Wow, really? I had no idea.” Dean looked at the feathery mess beneath him. “How do we treat wings?”

Sam bit his lip. “How do we get him comfortable would be my first question.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, he’s pretty ragdoll-looking-ish.” He looked at the wings again and then at Sam. “Is he even trying to get up?”

Sam shook his head, gently carding his hand through Castiel’s hair. “Nope. He’s just… collapsed.”

Dean cautiously removed himself from Castiel’s wings, seeing no need to hold them down now that they weren’t flailing aimlessly. “That doesn’t look comfortable.”

Sam shook his head again, slower and more to express disgust and pity than anything. “I honestly don’t think he really knows what’s going on.”

“Geeze…” Dean ran a hand through his hair and started to pace. “Tortured by his family and thrown at hunters who want to gank him.”

“Well, we know better now.” Sam felt immense guilt about their first encounter, but he refused to focus on it. “We can help him get back on his feet.” And they couldn’t do that while wallowing in guilt.

“Yeah, and no way the Halo Squad is getting anywhere near him.”

Sam looked down at Castiel again, lightly tracing a gash along Castiel’s cheek with his finger. “What do you think they did to him? I mean, for what purpose? Like… was it punishment or interrogation or…” He sighed heavily. “It feels wrong to judge angels as a whole when we don’t have the details, but…” Sam sighed again and shook his head. “I can’t see any excuse for this. It’s just messed up.”

Dean let out a heavy sigh and looked at Castiel and Sam, putting his hands on his hips. He didn’t say anything for a moment or two, and then he started to nod, apparently done with talk and ready for action.

“Well. He’s got wings and feathers. I say we make him a nest.”

Sam looked at Dean, deadpan.

Dean didn’t back down. “Hey, I’m serious. We can get a few mattresses, as many pillows and blankets and soft things as we can find and then… make him a nest. Something so he can lay on his stomach without hurting himself, and something big enough that we can stretch his wings out and… do whatever you do to burned wings.”

Sam considered the idea for a moment, and then he started to nod. It was actually a pretty good idea, if a bit cliché, and they were in the perfect place for it. Bobby held on to a lot more than cars, after all.

“We can take one of the guest rooms, get the furniture out, and put… what, four box springs?” Sam waited for a nod from Dean to continue. “Four mattresses on the box springs, four to put padding between the nest and the wall.”

“Then pillows and blankets galore—I don’t think Bobby has ever gotten rid of a single piece of fabric that has come into this house.” Dean crouched down beside Sam and tried to get a look at Castiel’s eyes. “We should have eyedrops somewhere.”

“They looked like they were clearing up on their own, but it’s slow going.” Sam lifted Castiel slightly. “Can you see his chest and side? How’s it looking?”

“Well, it’s a bruisefest, but I think the stab wounds are mostly closed up. Still bleeding a bit… he probably tore the new skin with all his panicking… but it’s better than it would be if he were human.” Dean pursed his lips. “So, he’s got some kind of healing ability—makes sense, I guess, if he’s an angel—but it’s not unlimited.”

Sam wet his lips. “Which means he was tortured for so long that his body ran out of… whatever it is his body uses to heal itself.”

They exchanged a look, and then Dean stood up and clapped his hands together.

“Okay, let’s get this guy upstairs and clean him up.”

Sam frowned. “Do any of us know anything about cleaning wings? I mean, they’re angel wings, but wings are generally fragile, and we don’t wanna screw them up more than they already are.”

Dean shrugged. “Research is your department, Sammy. I say we start with the holy grail of first aid: warm water. You can never go wrong with warm water.”

Sam nodded in agreement, and then he started to shift his hold, moving to Castiel’s right while Dean crouched back down on the left. “This is gonna be even harder with the wings.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t carry that over the threshold, so…” Dean grunted, wrapping one of Castiel’s arms around his neck and slowly standing up with Sam. He looked over his shoulder as soon as they were upright. “Crap. They’re gonna drag if we do it this way.”

Sam blew his bangs out of his eyes. “Um…” He looked at Castiel for about ten seconds straight. “Here, let’s try this.”

Sam got behind Castiel and wrapped his arms around the angel’s waist, using his arms and chest to keep Castiel’s wings folded, much like Dean had earlier. “Okay, you have to get his legs, but not by the ankles.”

Dean hovered, hands outstretched but unsure what to do. “What?”

“If you just pick him up by the ankles, I’ll have to grip him really tight to keep him from falling, and that’ll hurt his wings.” Sam hid his smile behind the matted feathers of Castiel’s left wing. “You’re gonna have to grab him bridal style while I hold his torso and wings together.”

“So, basically, you want me to stick my hand between your crotch and an almost-naked guy’s crotch to get a good grip on him. Did I follow that right?” Dean looked at Sam with raised brows and incredibly judging eyes.

“No.” Sam was still struggling not to smile. “I want you to stick your hand between my crotch and an almost-naked guy’s _butt_ to get a good grip on him.”

“ _You’re_ a butt,” was Dean’s eloquent counter. “Just… don’t move.”

Sam couldn’t hold the laughter back anymore, but he did manage to keep it quiet and earn no more than a dirty look. Then Dean was carefully moving his arm between the duo, wrapping it around Castiel’s waist while the other hooked his knees.

“This has to be the awkwardest thing we’ve ever done.” Dean almost started toward the stairs before going in the opposite direction so Sam could take the lead.

“Most awkward.” Sam carefully walked across the panic room and over to the stairs. “Awkwardest isn’t a word.”

“Sam, I swear, I will drop this angel to punch you.”

Sam smirked, intending to make a comment about Dean having to get around said angel because of the stair railings, but the humorous moment was cut short by Bobby muttering curses from the top of the steps.

“He’s got wings now?”

“Apparently.” Dean nearly tripped on the second to last step.

Sam tried to maintain both his balance and a loose hold on Castiel. “He’s an angel.”

Bobby looked at the mess of feathers and skin and boys, but to his credit, all he did was heave a sigh and shake his head. “What are we doin’ with him?”

“Right now, the plan is to clean him up and make him a nest of soft things.” Sam couldn’t really shrug while holding Castiel, but he still made an attempt. “You know anything about birds? Or wing and feather care?”

Bobby’s expression was priceless. Sam only wished he could preserve it for posterity.

But what Bobby didn’t know, Bobby quickly learned, and then it was the three of them with a tarp, buckets of warm water from the house, and Dawn dish soap. That, and an unconscious angel.

It took a little over an hour to clean away the blood—along with the down feathers sticking to it—and dead skin. Once that was done, they hit a wall of sorts, quickly realizing Castiel had been tortured in relatively untreatable ways.

There weren’t any puncture wounds or incisions aside from the ones they had inflicted, yet the damage was severe. Bruises covered Castiel’s body so he was more purple than pale, and Dean had located four swollen spots where he was certain ribs had been broken. Bruises and broken ribs couldn’t be treated, so they looked to the next thing.

Well, the next thing was the burns. Most of the skin around the base of Castiel’s wings had been burned to the third degree, but as the burn spread, it faded into second and then first degree. It was a good thing—the less nerve damage, the better—but once again difficult to treat. They had already peeled away the dead skin, so they gently cleaned the exposed dermis and wrapped it in gauze as best they could. They once again looked to the next thing.

They found marks and bruising under Castiel’s fingernails that indicated needles had been shoved there. Sam had gotten a little sick at that, but once he was done, he was right back at Castiel’s side. Bobby excused himself, announcing his intention to work on the nest for ‘Featherbrain.’

Sam and Dean got back to work. They found more burns on Castiel’s arms, neck, hands, feet, and thighs, all of them first degree. Where the skin wasn’t burned it was scraped or irritated or welted, never enough to cause real damage but always enough to make sure Castiel would feel pain every time he moved, every time he breathed.

Neither brother spoke when they removed the bloody boxer-briefs, and though they would never speak of it, they both breathed a sigh of relief when they saw no signs of sexual torture. There were, of course, burns and scratches and welts. There were always burns and scratches and welts, it seemed.

By the time they got Castiel in his nest, the sun was coming up over the mountains.

By the time Dean was finished taking out his frustrations on a car, it was high noon.

By the time Sam fell asleep on a Bible and an encyclopedia of birds, it was mid-afternoon.

By the time Castiel started screaming in his sleep, it was almost dinnertime.

By the time the sun was slowly dipping back down below the horizon, Sam and Dean did something they never imagined they would.

“Sammy, he’s starting to mumble again.”

Sam joined Dean in the nest on the other side of Castiel, carefully avoiding the wings spread out on the mattresses, and he put his head down to listen.

“…no… won’t… can’t make me… can’t…”

Sam frowned slightly and looked at Dean. “That’s new.”

Dean just stared at Castiel, eyes turning dark and cold. “Well, we know he was tortured a long time. Maybe this is how it started.”

Castiel inhaled sharply and moaned. “This… this isn’t… what Father… wants…”

Dean shifted from sitting to laying down, and then he slipped his legs underneath one of the many, many blankets spread around them. He shimmied down so his lower half was underneath Castiel’s wing, making himself comfortable.

Sam pursed his lips, confused, but followed his brother’s lead and took off his shoes, tossing them well away from the nest. He sat cross-legged and waited to see what Dean would do, wondering if he was about to see one of those moments when Dean embraced his instinctive need to comfort.

Dean grunted, trying to move Castiel onto himself. “Help me out, Sammy.”

Sam was surprised but helped nonetheless, situating Castiel so his head was resting on Dean’s chest. He remained confused for a moment more, but then Dean shifted Castiel so his head was specifically over Dean’s _heart_ , and Sam understood.

“Can we do anything else to keep him from panicking?” Sam reached out to feel the angel’s pulse, startled at how fast it was. “Candles or oils or something?”

“Wow. I have a shirtless dude laying on me, and you just lost more man points than I did. That’s just sad.”

Sam reached over and smacked Dean upside the head, moving back slightly and holding up a finger when Dean tried to retaliate. “Ah, ah, ah. Don’t want to wake him up.”

“You suck,” Dean grumbled.

Sam only smiled and pulled the blankets more securely around Castiel's waist and legs. He sat back after that, leaning against the upright mattresses and pillows, waiting to see what Dean would do.

Dean didn’t do much of anything for a few moments, and then he started to run his hand through Castiel’s hair. Just once or twice every thirty seconds or so. He pressed the back of his hand to Castiel’s face and neck, but he must not have found a fever, because he dropped his hand back to the mattress and left it there until he needed to stroke Castiel’s hair again.

“You hated sleeping on your belly as a kid.”

Sam’s face screwed up. “Um… okay?”

“You had a sinus infection… and it was really bad.” Dean reached out and ran a hand through Castiel’s hair again, his eyes glued to the ceiling. “You kept getting sick because you were laying on your back and swallowing all the infected junk in your sleep.”

“Ew, Dean, seriously?” Sam put a hand to his stomach even as he thought about it, confused and disgusted, having no idea where Dean was going with the conversation. “I don’t want to throw up again tonight if I can help it.”

Dean smiled slightly, but he wasn’t deterred. “I made your sleep on your belly. You were so mad about it… but I didn’t give you a choice. I stayed awake all night, watching you, making sure you didn’t roll over in your sleep. Twice your congestion woke you up, and you tried to roll over then, too.”

Sam stared at his socks, but he didn’t really see them. “I… I don’t remember.” He looked back up. “Sorry, Dean.”

Dean only shook his head, staring perpetually at the ceiling. “You were only four.”

Sam looked at Dean, waiting in silence, still confused, knowing there had to be something Dean was building up to. But Dean didn’t say anything. He just ran his hand through Castiel’s hair again. Sam was just about to press him when he finally spoke.

“You insisted sleeping on your stomach made you feel sick, and I couldn’t get you to believe that laying on your back would make you feel even sicker. You screamed and cried and pleaded and demanded. You told me you hated me, that you’d never forgive me, and that if I loved you, I wouldn’t make you sleep on your belly.” Dean snorted out a bitter laugh. “It killed me.”

Sam wet his lips, trying to remind himself how irrational it was to be embarrassed and guilted by the actions of his four-year-old self. “Dean—”

“There’s only one thing that kept me from giving in, and it was knowing I was doing what was best for you.” Dean finally took his eyes off Castiel, meeting Sam’s with a kind of fire the younger brother had never seen before. “That is the only acceptable reason for any big brother to cause their little brother that kind of pain and fear. There is nothing else in the universe that should have the override key to that instinct, that…” he sent his eyes back to the ceiling and cleared his throat, embarrassed, “…that ‘let me hold you and make everything better’ instinct.” He looked back down. “That is the _only_ reason, Sammy.”

Sam remained silent, his expression tinged with sympathy but mostly neutral. It wasn’t often that Dean poured out his heart, so to speak, and Sam wasn’t going to do _anything_ to make him close up again.

Dean shook his head and looked back at Castiel, folding one arm under his own head while the other ran through the dark, somewhat damp locks again. “You know that old saying, ‘better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?’”

Sam nodded slightly and whispered, “Yeah.”

“I dunno, man.” Dean shook his head again. “No family is perfect, but… in a case this extreme, you gotta wonder if he would have been better off abandoned. Not getting this sick idea of what brothers are supposed to do to each other.”

Sam hesitated but then grabbed the edge of a blanket, sliding underneath and laying on his left side less than three feet from the duo. “I don’t know. Maybe there’s a bright side to it.”

Dean scoffed. “Like what?”

Sam shrugged, pressing his lips together as he watched Castiel slowly breathe. “Contrast, maybe. We can teach him what big brothers are supposed to do.” He smiled slightly. “I’d kinda like to be on the other end of things for a change.”

Dean didn’t say anything for a moment, but then he laughed.

“What?” Sam gave him a dirty look. “I can pull off the older brother thing. Heck, I take care of _you_ half the time as is.”

Dean only shook his head, still laughing. “He’s probably older than both of us, you know that?”

Sam thought about that for a moment, and his face broke into a grin. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Castiel whimpered, fingers clutching both Dean’s shirt and the sheet beneath them. “Please…” He shuddered, his face screwed up tight. “Father, please… please, get me out… I’m scared… I’m scared, I’m so scared…”

Dean and Sam shared yet another pained look, something that seemed to always punctuate their interactions with Castiel. Would the angel ever say or do something that didn’t stab them in the chest?

“It’s okay, buddy.” Dean reached out and gently stroked Castiel’s hair. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Castiel’s face relaxed but then twisted up again, one leg trying to come up toward his chest while the other kicked the blankets. “Please…”

“Cas, you can’t do that.” Dean spoke softly, but he still placed a firm hand on Castiel’s back and pressed him down flat. “Try not to move, okay? You’re safe.”

Castiel whimpered, and Dean shushed him, running a hand through his hair repeatedly. Sam slowly sat up, sliding one leg out from under the blankets with the intention of leaving.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Sam looked at Dean, who was less than pleased, and offered a helpless and bewildered expression. “It’s just kinda awkward. You’re going Big Brother Mode, and I don’t know what to do, so I thought—”

“You wanna be his big brother, you get your butt over here and you deal with the awkward crap.” Dean looked back at Castiel and ran a hand through his hair again. “I’m talking about my feelings and childhood memories as I lay in a freakin’ nest-bed with a shirtless angel on my chest, and if his nightmares keep up, soon I’ll be whispering sweet nothings in the still of the night. I can literally feel my manhood ceasing to exist.”

Sam’s mouth quirked up in the corner.

“But he’s _scared_ , Sammy.”

Sam slowly laid back down, keeping himself propped up slightly. “I won’t go anywhere.”

“Good.” Dean nodded affirmatively. “And just for the record, knowing what you’re doing has nothing to do with being a big brother. ‘Cause I have no freakin’ clue what I’m doing, but here we are, man.”

Sam chuckled softly, but he didn’t say anything, and Dean let that silence hang. It was an easy silence, strained only by the rattling breaths from Castiel’s lungs.

“In the stiiill… of the niiiight…” Sam sang, grinning at Dean.

“Sam, I swear—”

“Hooold me darlin’… hooold me tight…”

“How dare you taint this room with country music?”

“Shoo doop, shoo be do…”

“Did you just doo-wop in my presence? Stop. Not another doop. Sam—”

“Soooo real… sooooo right—”

“I am not afraid to break your face.”

“Lost in the fifties toniiiight…”

“You’re dead to me.”

“I could have been, but you went and sold your soul.”

“That’s cold, Sam.”

“No, I imagine it would have been very hot.”

“I hate you.”

“I love you, too.”


	3. Team Free Will

Soft.

That was the first thing Castiel processed upon waking up. He was on something soft, and something soft was on him. There was a soft breeze blowing through the room, and sunlight danced across his skin, kissing him with soft warmth. His breathing was soft and steady for the first time in weeks. Someone had their arms around him, but they weren't holding him tight like his brothers had—they were holding him softly.

Everything was soft, and Castiel felt safe.

He felt safe for the first time in decades.

_But I don't know where I am._

_"You're in Sioux Falls."_

That memory would have been very helpful if Castiel knew where Sioux Falls was, but in his current situation, the information didn't do him much good.

He remembered he was with the Winchesters, though, and he remembered being afraid; except he felt safe in that moment, and he couldn't quite remember what happened to get him from one feeling to the next.

Castiel slowly opened his eyes, tensing up at the sight that greeted him. Sam Winchester was laying nearby, his sleeping face less than a foot away, and his arm was one of the ones draped over Castiel's body.

 _Sam Winchester. The Boy with the Demon Blood._ Castiel swallowed hard and shifted his weight slightly, hoping he could get out from under the limb without waking the hunter.

That movement, however, brought another person to his attention. His head was resting on a chest, not a pillow, and the other arm around him didn't belong to someone laying nearby but someone laying beneath him.

 _Dean Winchester. The Righteous Man._ Castiel looked between the two faces, trying to figure out how to escape and coming up blank. He was on his stomach with his head and chest and right arm on Dean, who in turn had an arm loosely wrapped around Castiel's upper back. Sam was lying to the left, further down the mattress so his head was level with Castiel's ribcage and under Castiel's left arm. Sam's right arm was lying across the small of Castiel's back, and his left arm was folded nearby, looking ready to wrap around and meet its twin at a moment's notice.

Castiel inhaled slowly and tried to get on his knees, intending to crawl backwards down the length of the bed. He was met with immediate pain, wounds pulling apart beneath bandages, bruised and skinned knees begging for his weight to be removed from them.

"Castiel…" Sam slipped that second arm under Castiel and grabbed his waist, pulling him down. "S'okay… s'just a nightmare… you're safe…"

Castiel's instinctive response was to pull away, but that only encouraged the older Winchester to tighten his hold.

"Y'can't move, Cas…" Dean's head turned to the side, eyes closed and underlined by dark circles. "Gonna hurt yourself… calm down…"

Sam inhaled deeply and heaved a sigh, and Castiel realized his eyes were also closed. "S'alright, Castiel… you're not there anymore…"

Castiel frowned slightly, looking between the two of them for a moment before lowering himself back to Dean's chest, eyes boring into Sam's skull.  
Had they been with him all night? Had they been trying to keep him still through his nightmares so he wouldn't hurt himself?

"Dean…" Castiel whispered quietly.

Dean moaned. "Sam, for the last time… I don't _know_ what time it is. Bobby said he would wake us up when it was time to change Cas' bandages. Stop… _asking…_ "

Castiel blinked slowly and tried to look at himself.

Dean was right. He was wrapped in bandages, and the places where his skin hadn't been damaged enough to warrant dressing, there was some kind of… salve or ointment.

Castiel looked over his shoulder then, pleasantly surprised to find his wings still attached. More than that, they had been treated to the best of the humans' ability.

Sam and Dean Winchester hadn't hurt him. Quite the opposite, they had tended to his wounds and gave up their necessary commodity of sleep to keep him from hurting himself unconsciously.

 _How much sleep do humans need?_ Castiel wasn't entirely sure, though he thought it was something like ten to twelve hours every month, but he didn't know how long he had been unconscious, so he supposed it didn't really matter either way. He had no idea how long it had been, but he knew humans weren't supposed to have those dark markings under their eyes.

Castiel looked at his left hand, rubbing the fingers together and feeling some of his grace spark between the tips. _It isn't much, but…_ He reached up with two fingers and—

"Castiel!" Sam grabbed onto the hand before it could make contact. "What are you doing?"

Dean startled awake at the noise and movement, inhaling deeply and looking around in confusion. "What? What's—?"

"Nothing bad!" Castiel insisted. "I have no ill intent. I—I was only going to restore the sleep I took." He swallowed, trying to use what he knew about demons in order to answer Sam's question. _Selfish._ "I—I was going to restore your sleep as well."

"No!" Dean and Sam said it in unison, Dean barking it out like a command while Sam shouted in some combination of concern and panic.

"Castiel, you're hurt," Sam said, slowly pulling Castiel's arm back down to the mattress.

Dean moved his arm from Castiel's back, but Castiel couldn't see what he was doing. "Yeah, Houdini, we don't have anything some melatonin and a day off can't fix."

Sam gave his brother an odd look. "You know what melatonin is?"

"You don't know everything about me," was Dean's snappish reply.

Castiel didn't like being unable to see both of their faces at the same time.

Sam slowly let go of Castiel's hand. "What we're trying to say is… save your strength. Focus on healing your body and your wings, and if—"

"Oh!" Castiel tensed, a small twist of fear in the pit of his stomach. "I forgot to apologize. I—I didn't mean to bring those out. I'm sure they were very inconvenient."

"No, it's good." Dean cleared his throat and started to scoot backwards, sitting upright and helping Castiel to do the same. "If you hadn't made them… I dunno, _appear_ , we never would have known how bad off they were."

Sam also sat up then, carefully avoiding that which they were discussing, conscious of not only the damaged skin but the feathers as well. "We did our best to clean them up without causing any more damage. We treated them like we would treat bird wings on Earth, so… I hope they're alright."

"Oh, they're… they're fine." They had researched? Or were they already bird experts? "Thank you for not pulling too many damaged feathers."

Sam nodded with a slight smile. "We only pulled the ones that were making you bleed. I read… well, at least for birds, the flight feathers are connected to the bone. Is that true for angels, too?"

Castiel blinked owlishly and nodded his head. They had definitely committed time to researching adequate care. _I don't understand._

"Are you gonna be able to grow feathers back? Um, and fly again?" Sam seemed genuinely concerned about the permanency of Castiel's health.

Castiel nodded his head again. Those were very nice questions to ask.

Dean grunted then, shifting again. "You know if human pain meds will work on you?"

Castiel thought about it for a moment and then shook his head. "I do not know."

"Well, we can try it. If it helps, we'll hook you up with some more," Dean affirmed.

Castiel looked between the two of them, feeling something twist in his chest that he couldn't quite identify. Betrayal? His brothers had clearly lied to him about the Winchesters—more Sam than Dean—along with so many other things. Guilt? He shouldn't have judged them without giving them a chance, attempted stabbing aside, especially not Sam; not when he knew the part of Sam that was demonic in the present wasn't something he wanted or asked for. Shame? He had never heard of an angel being reduced to such a state that they had to be nursed back to health by humans. If he ever returned home—which, he realized with a new kind of chest pain, would likely never happen—he would be a laughingstock for sure.

"Hey, you okay?" It was Dean, his gruff voice contrasting with words that clearly displayed concern. "You're not gonna have another flashback, are you?"

"He wouldn't be able to control it, Dean," Sam snapped back, sounding more annoyed than angry.

"Well, nyeh nyeh nyeh nyeh nyeh," was Dean's eloquent reply, his voice nasally and lips twisted into an intentionally ridiculous expression.

"Shut your face, Dean."

_They aren't cruel._

"Nyeh nyeh nyeh."

_They are kind._

"I'm eating your pie."

_What if I had succumbed?_

"Don't you dare."

_What if this lightheartedness was gone forever because of me?_

"I think it's cherry, too."

Castiel burst into tears, but there was only elation in his chest.

"Woah, hey, it's alright." Dean softly ran his hand through Castiel's hair. "You're okay. We're sorry, we didn't mean to scare you. We weren't really fighting. Nobody's gonna hurt anybody here, okay?"

Castiel shook his head, and he started smiling despite the hot tears rolling down his cheeks. His head fell back to Dean's chest for sheer lack of ability to hold it up, and he shook his head again. "No, it's not that."

Sam moved a little closer, leaning against the walls of whatever bed-thing they were in. "Castiel… what is it?"

"I'm happy. I'm so happy I didn't say yes."

Sam and Dean looked at each other and then back at Castiel, Dean speaking first.

"What do you mean, Cas?"

Castiel looked up at Sam from where he lay, sniffing. "Sam Winchester. The Boy with the Demon Blood." He looked at Dean then, ignoring the horrified expression on Sam's face. "Dean Winchester. The Righteous Man." He tried to keep looking, but his neck was tired, and his head fell back down. "You were spoken of in Heaven for so long…"

Sam shook his head slightly. "Why… would Heaven be talking about us?"

Castiel looked at Sam with half-open eyes. "Dean was supposed to go to Hell."

Both brothers tensed, and Castiel felt Dean's hold on him tighten a little.

"How did you know about that?" There was danger in Dean's tone, but Castiel felt no fear.

Why, he didn't know, as it would have been the logical reaction to facing an angry Winchester, but he was very certain he was safe. He was certain in a way he couldn't explain, but he was certain nonetheless.

"All of Heaven knows you were supposed to go to Hell… and I was supposed to get you out. But my brothers, they… they wanted me to wait. You are the Righteous Man who sheds blood in Hell and opens the first seal of the apocalypse. They wanted me to wait for forty years to get you out, because they wanted to be sure Hell had time to… to break you… to make you shed that blood."

Dean and Sam both stared at him, wide-eyed and clearly confused.

"Sam, the demon who has helped you from time to time. She calls herself Ruby." He saw recognition in both of their faces. "While Dean was in Hell, she was going to convince you to drink demon blood to hone your powers. It would have given you the ability to kill Lilith, which you would have done with the best intentions, I'm sure, but it would have broken the last seal. But you killed her before she could take Dean to Hell. I was very happy about this, but my brothers… the more powerful ones… they wanted the apocalypse. They wanted to get rid of Lucifer once and for all, but… but the casualties would have been devastating!"

Castiel's voice got faster and raised slightly, and he couldn't help but feel like he was trying to convince himself more than his audience, forty years of torment ringing in his ears. "Father made you, and He loves you, and we are supposed to love you, too. We aren't—we aren't supposed to devastate humankind with a 7000-year-old family feud. I don't—I don't think it's what He wants us to do, but… but it was spoken of in Heaven for centuries, and…"

_"… and you've betrayed your kin, Castiel."_

_"I will betray… every angel in Heaven… if it means… I am still obeying Father…"_

_"You really think you know our Father better than I?"_

_"Michael… you are different… you have been… ever since… since—ahh!"_

_"You have never even seen Him. I could have created the Heaven you know, could have made Him up to give myself additional authority, and you would be none the wiser."_

_"Heh… no, Michael… I have seen Him… I have seen Him in ways… you… will never understand… and I know… what He has told me… of His heart… and this… is not… it!"_

_"Well, Castiel, we have four decades ahead of us. Let's see if we can have you singing a new tune by the end of it."_

_"Do your worst… Michael…"_

And Michael did.

Oh, how he did.

* * *

"Here, listen to this, 'Local Park Rangers have no explanation for the sudden rash of wild animal attacks in Boise, Idaho.'"

Dean popped another top and took a swig of beer. "We thinking werewolves?"

"No, it sounds like there was almost nothing left of the bodies."

"Wendigo?" he suggested, refusing to acknowledge the four bottles already in the sink.

Sam frowned and shook his head at his laptop. "Except it's in suburbia, not out in the woods."

"Rugaru it is." Dean's beer was most definitely not half-gone, and he could mostly definite see straight. "Time to get the Molotov Cockails, Sammy."

Sam let out a heavy sigh and leaned back in his chair. "So, are we not gonna talk about this… thing?"

Dean shook his head. "Nope. Cas can tell us more when he's up." He opened his mouth to say something else but stopped when he saw Castiel—sans wings, which was absolute proof he was still soberish enough to notice things—standing on the other side of Bobby's living room. "Huh. Speak of the devil, and he shall appear."

Castiel squinted, confused, and slowly approached the kitchen. "No, that is not true. He is trapped in a cage in the lowest level of Hell. You could not even use a summoning ritual."

Dean didn't know how to respond to that—he was tempted to laugh, yet his brain was fried—so he took another drink instead.

Sam, on the other hand, turned toward the archway with a warm smile. "It's just a saying, Castiel. It's good to see you up." He gestured vaguely over Castiel's shoulders. "Uh, I hope it's not, like… offensive to ask, but… where are your wings?"

"Oh." Castiel glanced back and then looked at Sam again. "I returned them to their metaphysical state. But the bandages went with them, and it is making them feel much better. I appreciate the help more than you know."

Dean rubbed his forehead, feeling warm and dizzy. "Uh, well, that's great. You're welcome and all that." He leaned back against the counter to hide the fact that he couldn't stand. "Uh, so… apocalypse?"

Castiel looked at Dean, then Sam, and then Dean again. "Oh, there will not be one. Or at least, not for some time, and it will not happen the same way."

Sam nodded slowly and looked at his computer for a moment. "So, Dean was going to kill people in Hell, and I was going to kill Lilith, and it was going to start the apocalypse?"

Castiel tilted his head slightly. "There were many other steps and sixty-four seals between those two events, but yes."

Dean cleared his throat. "But we ganked Lilith before I got sent to Hell, so the first and last seals can't never happen, right?" _I think I said that wrong._

Castiel looked at him for a moment, probably deciphering what Dean had said, and then he nodded. "That is correct. Even if they were to somehow send you to Hell and make you shed blood, and then somehow break another sixty-four seals after that, they would never be able to break the final seal because it has to be Lilith."

Dean took another drink and nodded. _Good. Great. I was gonna go to Hell and get tortured into, what, killing other people? Other demons? Can you even kill demons while you're in Hell?_

"So, here's what I don't get." Dean struggled to get his butt up on the counter for a moment, but then he was sitting on the bar, and the room was not spinning. "Sam and me, we ganked Lily—"

"Lilith." Sam and Castiel corrected him in unison.

"Lilith. Whatever." Dean waved it off. "We killed her and screwed up the plan. So, it…" he lost his train of thought for a moment, "…uh, it didn't even matter you weren't gonna do, y'know, the thing they wanted."

Castiel stared at the floor, though he didn't hang his head, which Dean found to be an odd expression of shame. "They tortured me in preparation for what was about to happen. It would have been three months here… but it was thirty years there. Once you evaded Hell, I think they just needed an outlet."

Sam pointed to Dean and himself. "Why not come after us?"

"You are both… very special." Castiel said the words cautiously, his features twisting slightly for a second after. "You are instrumental in more ways than one when it comes to matters of the apocalypse. This attempt may have been stopped, but they will be desperate to find another way, and if they are successful, both sides will need you."

"So, we're off limits." Dean frowned, and it was unfair to suspect Castiel of manipulating them, but he asked anyway. "How did you get out?"

Castiel wet his lips and looked down but kept his head up again. "I didn't. They, uh… they threw me at you."

Sam nodded a few times. "Yeah… yeah, that's right. You said you fell, and then you backtracked and said you were thrown."

Dean leaned against the nearby cabinet, tapping his bottle against the counter idly. "Why give you to us?"

"I would imagine…" Castiel cleared his throat. "Well, the three of us are supposed to be at the heart of the apocalypse. I imagine they intend to keep us together for the same reason you are still off limits. They don't yet know what they will need."

"But they had you." Sam frowned. "They had to know you would warn us if they let you go."

Castiel started to lean against the nearby doorframe, and both Sam and Dean immediately pointed to a nearby chair.

Muttering words of thanks, Castiel hobbled across the kitchen and sat down before continuing. "I don't know… how much of what they told me is true… if they were lying to me, or if they genuinely think…" Castiel sighed, pressing a hand to his ribs. "They told me… you would be worse."

Sam tilted his head to the side. "Worse than we used to be? Worse than most hun—"

"Worse than them." Castiel couldn't look at either of them when he said that. "I think… because I am not human and you are hunters, they thought you would… punish me further. Until I felt I had to obey not only them but you as well… which would have been very helpful in the grand scheme of things."

Sam stared, speechless and horrified.

Dean slipped off the counter and turned around to face it, grabbing the bar and kicking through one of the cabinets. _Bobby's gonna kill me._ But he didn't care.

_That's how he knows what hunters are, that's why our last name set him off, that's why he knew to promise not to hurt people, that's why he didn't want to tell us what he was, that's why he was so freaking terrified. He was told about us. He was told horror stories about what to expect from us._

"I'm sorry," Castiel said softly. "I know it is unfair. I—"

"Don't say sorry for that." Dean pulled his foot out of the broken plywood and gave the door a significantly lighter, almost defeated kick. "You were trying to stay alive. You… just don't." He looked at his beer, but he knew another gulp wasn't going to make him feel better.

Castiel was silent for a moment, but then he spoke again. "I do not think ill of either of you. I thought being thrown to you was more punishment, but now I realize it was an answer to prayer."

Dean slowly turned around and looked at Castiel, his face screwed up. "Really? You think—after all that, you still believe in God?"

Castiel nodded, and a slight smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. "I begged my Father to send someone to help me. He did."

"That's—"

"Dean." Sam rubbed the back of his head. "I was actually thinking about this last night, when he was talking in his sleep, and it is kinda… miraculous, how it all turned out."

Dean spread his arms. "What are you talking about? Have you both gone crazy? We were on a hunt, we wasted some demons, some angels threw him at us, and here we are."

Castiel tilted his head, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

"Hear me out, okay?" Sam spread his hands slightly. "We are two of the most infamous hunters out there, but we couldn't bring ourselves to try fire as a method to kill Castiel. We could hardly bring ourselves to try the iron and silver. Then _you_ suggested we bring him with us, and that is not you, Dean. It was like the thought just… hit you out of nowhere. So, we get him in the Impala and speed halfway across the country, during which time we somehow don't get pulled over once, and we get here. We put Castiel in the panic room, and we start researching. Bobby, who happens to have the panic room, also happens to be information central for all hunters everywhere, so we've got tons of material. Which comes in handy when we need to know how to clean and treat Castiel's wings, which we were able to do by the light of the full moon, which prevented drawing any attention to the scrap yard. We also happen to be brothers, so when we realized his brothers had done this to him, we got extremely protective—especially you." Sam spread his hands a little more and shrugged. "I'm not saying it's a sure thing, but if Castiel thinks his Father orchestrated this… I'll go with him on it."

Dean rolled his eyes, but he wasn't about to fight them on it. Drunk Dean was a little more intolerant and wanted to pick a fight, but Sober Dean had long ago accepted Sam's belief in God, and Castiel was a literal angel so…

"Fine, fine." Dean pointed to Castiel and snapped his fingers. "You said something earlier. You said your brothers needed an outlet after we killed Lilith. We killed her a month ago, so… another ten years?"

Castiel didn't say anything, but that was answer enough.

"So, forty years." See? He was so sober he could even math. "You wouldn't let me get tortured for forty years, so they tortured y—"

"Don't." Castiel looked at Dean without a hint of timidity or regret in his eyes. "They tortured me because I did what I believed was right. They chose to mimic your intended fate to get inside your head. I only answered you honestly because I knew if I didn't tell you, they would. They will do whatever it takes to manipulate you." His eyes narrowed slightly, and Dean felt a chill go down his spine. "But you won't disrespect my suffering by allowing them to use it against you… will you, Dean?"

Dean stared at Castiel for a long moment, and he wondered what the angel was like when he was one hundred percent. If he could be incapable of standing for more than five minutes and still get that death look in his eyes, well…

"Message received, Houdini."

Castiel's danger was immediately replaced by confusion. "I still do not understand that."

Sam chuckled softly. "I'll explain it sometime." He clapped his hands together. "So, we definitely need to kill Ruby, and we've got to keep an eye out for angelic and demonic creatures who are doing anything… apocalypse related. Just to make sure they _don't_ find another way."

Dean nodded, and he thought he might have swayed a bit, but he was also pretty sure he didn't. "We gotta figure how to stay and touch with each other."

Sam arched a brow, but he didn't say anything. "Right. Castiel, you don't have anywhere to go, right?"

"You can simply pray, and I will hear you," Castiel replied, avoiding the question.

"Okay, but where are you gonna go? What are you gonna do?"

"Who you gonna call?" Dean said it before he could stop himself, earning a halfhearted glare from Sam.

"Ignore him." Sam looked at Castiel again, asking the question both brothers were already sure they knew the answer to. "What are you going to do, Castiel?"

Castiel looked between the two of them, slowly processing their sudden side interaction. "I, uh, I intend to study as much as I can, learn how to blend in with hum—"

"You ever waste a rugaru?" Dean didn't even realize his lips were moving until he'd already said it, just like in the warehouse, when he'd blurted out the idea to take the then-unknown creature along with them.

Castiel looked up, confused. "Uh…"

"Well, you're about to learn how." Dean finished his drink and set the bottle in the sink. "I mean, you don't have anywhere to go, right?"

Castiel slowly shook his head.

"Then don't go anywhere. I'm sure we could use your angel mojo, and it sounds like we're destinied to start a club or some crap, so…" Dean shrugged his shoulders, smirking. "Sam was s'pposed to be a demon blood baby, he said no. I was s'pposed to go to Hell, I said no. You were s'pposed to kiss a few angel butts, you said no."

Castiel frowned slightly, tilting his head, his expression growing progressively more concerned as he considered the thought Dean had planted.

Sam laughed softly. "So, what, Captain _Destinied_ , we're gonna be the Three Musketeers?"

"No, we're even better." Dean walked over to the table and put both hands down—maybe harder than he intended—grinning devilishly. "We're Team Free Will. We do what we want, and destinied—destiny can go screw itself. We got a family business to run."

Castiel looked Dean, ever-confused. "I… I do not think I qualify for a _family_ business."

Dean snorted. "Course you do."

Sam nodded, still grinning at Dean like he had said something funny. "You're our little brother now, Castiel." He turned his smile to Castiel. "We already decided while you were unconscious."

Castiel blinked slowly. "I am much older than you."

"Hey!" Dean wagged a finger at him. "Don't argue with your big brothers. You're the youngest, period, end of story."

Dean was momentarily afraid his commanding nature and talk of brotherhood would bring back unpleasant memories, but Castiel only began to smile.

"If that is what my brothers want, then… what is the family business?"

"Saving people," Sam replied, smiling.

"Hunting things," Dean added with a shrug.

"Refusing destiny." Castiel nodded, still wearing a small smile of his own.

Sam and Dean nodded. "The Family Business," they said.

Dean hiccupped and pointed to Castiel then. "I think you said destine wrong."

"I… did not say destine, I said destiny." Castiel blinked.

Sam shook his head. "Don't argue with Drunk Dean, Castiel. It never works."

Castiel looked up at Dean. "That is why drunkenness is a sin, Dean. It is very unhealthy, very unwise, and you look very stupid."

"Woah, woah, woah." Dean pointed at both of them, rocking slightly when the support of the table was no longer beneath his hands. "Just because there's two of you now, you do not gang up on your big brother."

But they would. He knew they would, and when he looked at Castiel and saw that spark, that lack of a need to watch his own back, that sense of belonging and family… Dean realized he didn't care. Let them gang up on him. Why the heck not? There was a reason Dean was the oldest. He could handle having an angel for one younger brother and a Sam for the other.

When it came to family, Dean Winchester could handle anything.

And he would. Oh, how he would.

* * *

_fin._


End file.
